


Tie Your Boat Along My Coast

by misura



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, F/F, Spoilers for Broken Homes, World War II, female Thomas Nightingale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27455011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: A specialist,Varvara's contact had said. In hindsight, she should have known what that meant, perhaps even who, given the British's typical attitude towards female practitioners. (canon divergent AU)
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Varvara Sidorovna Tamonina
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: Fandom For Australia





	Tie Your Boat Along My Coast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendrecarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/gifts).



_A specialist,_ Varvara's contact had said. In hindsight, she should have known what that meant, perhaps even who, given the British's typical attitude towards female practitioners.

"Vivien, I assume?" Britain was a theoretical ally. Still, Varvara's teachers had been pragmatic, and besides, there were a number of situations where knowing one's allies was as useful as knowing one's enemies.

None of the files had mentioned the Nightingale being, well, attractive.

Varvara was willing to allow that what information _had_ been in the file helped, too, enough to make this mission go from 'somewhat of a nuisance, but necessary' to 'a rare chance to see Britain's most famous wizard in action'.

On the downside, she'd have to be extremely careful not to get found out. The whole idea behind calling in a big gun from the mainland rather than deal with the reported werewolf herself had been to keep a low profile. One thing to be known to be an efficient and skilled operative; quite another to have it come out she was trained in the use of powers unknown to most people.

Several pithy Russian sayings came to mind to describe the situation.

"Yes," Varvara said, a bit belatedly. She saw her visitor take in her accent, her clothes, her looks.

"I'm here as an Englishman on business. You can call me Tommy."

Varvara managed not to laugh out loud. Her own cover name had been taken from an actress, she reminded herself. It was a common enough name even so - as was Tommy, arguably.

"Have I said something amusing?"

There had been little time to make friends during training. The mortality rate did not help. What point was there in making friends with people who might be dead tomorrow, or next week, or the week after?

Still, it had happened. Fleeting, tentative friendships - a look here, an encouraging nod or smile there. An occasional bit of kissing during a handful of stolen minutes.

_I would like this person to be my friend._ Varvara allowed herself to put the thought into words, to even fantasize for a few moments about how it might be, to become closely enough acquainted with this person opposite her to learn what she liked, what books she read, what authors she enjoyed; what made her laugh, or smile, or get angry.

And, of course, what her magic tasted, looked and felt like.

"You are an Englishman named Tommy? This is what I am supposed to believe?"

"Which part do you find least believable?" Genuine curiosity, with perhaps a touch of wounded pride.

Varvara sighed. _A specialist,_ she reminded herself. If even half the stories were true, the Nightingale ought to be more than a match for a werewolf, no matter how true the stories about them were. This might all work out perfectly well, and exactly as she'd planned.

"Never mind," she said. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"And you," the Nightingale said, but she sounded polite, professional, ready to do what she'd come here to do and go back to where she'd come from.

Which, Varvara assured herself, was exactly what she wanted the Nightingale to do.

"I take it your name isn't really Vivien," the Nightingale said, less than 48 hours later.

It felt both longer and shorter ago. Being thrust into life-threatening situations had that effect sometimes.

"What gave it away?" Varvara asked. Her accent was slipping, not that that was anywhere near her main concern at the moment.

"The string of Russian expletives was a bit of a give away, I'm afraid," the Nightingale said. She sounded genuinely apologetic about it, but also a little smug.

Varvara decided it was a British thing. _Arrogance._ The British were raised with it, fed on it.

"I would say something about how, now that you know my secret, I must kill you - as a joke," Varvara added, because it was best to avoid misunderstandings on these topics. "But how about instead you tell me your real name as well?"

The Nightingale's face suggested that she was not unaware that Varvara had not yet in fact revealed _her_ real name. "At the risk of sounding like a bit of a dullard, I must confess I didn't bother making up a fake one. Apart from the one on my travel papers, naturally, but I wasn't actually consulted for that one."

Varvara considered several responses. There was time: when dealing with a werewolf, one did not start running through a dark forest in the middle of the night - or any other part of the day. "It is not my habit to consider people capable of throwing trees around 'dullards'."

The Nightingale smiled. It made her look younger, more approachable. Varvara suddenly wondered how it had been, to be trained alongside boys, boys, boys, because girls did not become wizards in the British Empire - but the Nightingale had.

Varvara doubted the Nightingale had any more friends than she had. Perhaps one or two boys had been able to make the transition, to go from being friends with another boy to being friends with a person of the opposite gender, but, well, boys of a certain age could be very stupid.

"It was only a small tree," the Nightingale said. "I was more impressed by your freezing spell."

"Thank you. Do you hear anything?"

"No. Perhaps - " and then the werewolf was suddenly there, looking remarkably unbothered by having had a tree thrown at him, though Varvara imagined the growling might be his way to indicate annoyance; who could tell?

_And honestly, who cares?_

They put some distance between them and what remained of the werewolf, after, until Varvara decided that dying because neither of them had been willing to stop acting tough long enough to call for a rest would be very stupid, especially after they'd survived fighting a werewolf.

"Russian and a woman - one of the famous Night Witches, by any chance?" the Nightingale asked, for once sounding not the least arrogant, but rather like someone trying very hard not to let on that they already know the answer to their own question.

"We prefer 'infamous'," Varvara said. "Or 'unknown'. 'Unknown' would be better."

The Nightingale hesitated, and Varvara came to an unpleasant realization.

"They did not send you here because of the werewolf."

"They sent me here in part because of the werewolf, I'm sure," the Nightingale said.

Varvara started swearing in Russian again.

In a way, Varvara supposed it was just as well: had she in fact been found out by the Nightingale, she might have been forced to consider what to do about it.

As things stood, there was no point in weighing her chances. Killing the Nightingale would not magically make the British forget her existence.

A thorough disappearing act might well do the job, though.

Of course, she could do nothing until the Nightingale had safely flown back to Britain.

"I confess, I find myself hoping we might meet again some day. Under slightly less harrowing circumstances, by preference," the Nightingale said.

"As do I," Varvara said. It was true.

The Nightingale smiled, extending her hand. Varvara decided that she had grown a little tired of British manners and besides, the Nightingale already knew she wasn't.

It was unexpectedly nice, to hold another woman in her arms again, however briefly.

Varvara kissed her on the cheek and stepped back, content to have gotten a bit of payback for their conversation in the forest. "Try not to get killed."

"That is not a promise I can make in good conscience," the Nightingale said. She looked less flustered than Varvara might have liked or hoped, but then, Varvara reminded herself, she _was_ British. In addition to which, she'd spent a sizeable amount of her life posing as a boy. "However, I can promise you that I definitely have no intention of dying. And that I _would_ like us to meet again."

Varvara did not say that she doubted that would happen, mostly because, as a rule, people like the Nightingale did not survive wars. There would be a battle, or a mission, or a trap, and the Nightingale would volunteer to go and get herself very nobly killed for her country, her Queen and her countrymen.

A pity, Varvara decided, but alas, such was the way of the world.


End file.
